


Slytherin pride

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bullying, F/M, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Room of Requirement Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-10-29 12:36:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20796740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Draco returns to Hogwarts trying to keep his head down and graduate in peace. Yet more and more problems pile on top of the usual school stress and Slytherin hate.The Room of Requirement goes berserk.Emotional revelations are had.Potter meddles.





	1. Peculiar

**Author's Note:**

> Miiight contain some minor changes of the canon here and there  
It's been a while since I've read the books. :P  
But, enjoy!

Draco focuses on chewing his bland potatoes, pointedly ignoring Blaise's looks and Pansy's quiet seething. The meals are especially tasteless this year. He guesses even the wretched Hogwarts elves bully Slytherins in whatever way they can.

Everyone is holding a grudge these days, it seems. Not that he thinks all the, shall we say, prejudice is unjustified. It has been only months after a war that shook their world to its foundations. Some of Hogwarts is still in ruins. Though he despises the new situation he can't find it in himself to get angry or petty enough to do anything about it.

He promised Mother that he would keep his head down, stay out of trouble and play nice with the victors of this war. It's utterly humiliating, but if that's what it'll take to lessen the infamy of his family then that's what he'll do. It's not like he has the energy to pick fights anymore. Days have just become an endless mess of studying to make it impossible for biased teachers to ruin his grades.

Pansy, not even trying to be subtle at this point, elbows his goblet and it's contents spill into his remaining potatoes. At least they'll taste of something now.

He stops for a second, staring at his plate, then slowly stabs his fork into a soiled potato and eats it.

"I can't believe you!", she whispers.

At least she's not hysterical enough to make a scene. Blaise continues to eat as if nothing happened.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Draco! This is undignified! Do you not see what these bloody idiots are doing? They spit on our names and heritage!"

"We've talked about this, Pans."

They certainly have. Pansy has been carefully chipping away at his defences over the past few weeks. It's wonderfully Slytherin of her, he thinks.

"Yes! That's the problem! We've talked about the atrocities in this blasted castle and yet you do nothing! You don't even insult the Gryffindors anymore!"

He _has_ rather missed his competitive streak, what with even the ban on quidditch for the eighth years. There's nothing like the thrill of a good back and forth.

"_Pans._"

"Yes, you and your bloody promise to repair the family name. Don't remind me."

"You should be doing the same thing, you know."

She huffs, shooting daggers his way. It seems Pansy's in her rebellious phase.

Draco sighs. This particular argument is a battle of wills, mostly. Two stubborn heads butting against eachother. He knows his limits, however. His heart isn't in it and Pansy standing up for her ideals is a force to be reckoned with. Perhaps he could last a while if he distracted himself enough. A reminder of his half written Potions essay ought to tire him enough to give up on getting frustrated.

He chews another potato, thinking over sentence structures and Doxy eggs. Pansy glares at him. She's looking for buttons to push, that much is obvious.

She smirks and he braces himself for the onslaught.

"Well, I suppose. Whatever you think is best."

Draco narrows his eyes. Even Blaise glances up to quirk a brow.

"If you feel it is best to let innocent children from our house get bullied and ostracized, to pay for our crimes, well, that's your moral compass, not mine."

Hit him where it hurts. Clever.

Though the manipulation is transparent, she does have some kind of a point.

The war left Slytherin in shambles. Death Eater sympathisers fled the country or went into hiding. Many families have moved schools. All that are left are the innocent and ashamed. The lower years have it the absolute worst, bullied and harrassed mercilessly, no matter how many speeches the Headmistress holds about inter-house unity. Some of them even violate the dress code to seperate themselves from their House. It makes sense to attack the weak, but Draco wishes young children wouldn't have to pay for his crimes.

Another pile on the terrible mound of festering emotions he's been gathering for a while. He can't help giving into his nervous tick, rubbing the unscratchable itch on his arm, the markedarm, and Pansy knows she has a breakthrough.

"We need to educate them, Draco! Teach them to stand up for themselves! Show them our Slytherin pride!"

"I don't particularly think _pride_ is such a good thing to flaunt right now, Pans."

She scrambles.

"Oh for Merlin's sake! Slytherins stuck by their most trusted before Hufflepuffs even crawled out the womb!"

"Please don't use the word crawl concerning child birth."

"They'e a part of us, Draco! They're a part of the brood yet they turn their backs on lifelong allies to make friends with the people who bully them! It's unacceptable! It's- We-"

She abruptly closes her mouth, staring at her hands, clenched on the table. Her lips jut out in a childish pout, one she would most likely deny later. It is unbecoming of a lady, after all.

Draco cocks his head, concerned. It's unusual for Pansy to be so vulnerable in public.

"We have to fight back." Her voice is fierce and unforgiving, like a soldier ready for war.

Draco stares at her, noting that Blaise froze with his fork halfway into his mouth. He searches for appropriate words, but comes up empty.

"Look at our table," she says.

He does. A few groups of students are scattered along the benches, a stark contrast to the other houses, full to the brim. Gryffindor seems to be in need of an extension charm, too.

"This is not normal. We don't _deserve_ to be treated like second class citizens."

Isn't that what they've done to muggleborns?

Yet.

He thinks of a Hogwarts forever ashamed of a part of itself. Forever punishing children with personalities deemed wrong by the victors of some stupid feud that had nothing to do with them. Dooming them to a cruel life. Perhaps not forever, but most surely for quite a few generations.

He thinks of his mother, who he considered an excellent example of the best parts of Slytherin. Formerly an elegant, powerful woman who obtained what she wanted whenever she wanted. How under all the Malfoy pretense she had been the kindest person he's ever known, risking her life so many times to protect him. Now she is forced to spend her days alone in the Manor, listening to portraits screaming bloody murder and fearing for Father's life in Askaban.

He's relatively lucky in this situation, since most Malfoy assets are abroad, but Blaise and Pansy aren't so fortunate. What exceptional people they could have been. All their future prospects in the rubbish. Blaise is getting forced by her mother to live the life of "mysteriously disappearing" spouces for fortune. Pansy's parents are waving marriage over her head, telling her to abandon her dreams.

He sighs, knowing that he's already lost.

"I suppose _someone_ must put the Gryffindorks in their place."

Pansy's eyes light up and Blaise lets out a low chuckle. So much for promises.

The clinking of a goblet interrupts their conspiratory smiles. Every student, almost in sync, abandons conversation and looks up. The Great Hall goes eerily silent and Draco gets the distinct feeling of something being wrong. Headmistress McGonagall stands, leaning against her table.

"My apologies for interrupting dinner, it seems our returning year has once again brought to my attention their willingness to play in this year's quidditch tournaments. I would like all eighth years to stay behind after they are done eating to discuss this further. Thank you."

She sits down and the mass of students return to their meals.

Odd. Why would the Headmistress need the entire year to discuss such a simple thing? What is there even in need of discussing? She has said her reasons and everyone reluctantly agreed to step down from the sport so as to give younger children a chance at it.

Did one of the numbskull Gryffindors object? No, they're much too noble for that.

He shares a look with Pansy, then Blaise.

"Something's off," Blaise mutters.

"It better not be Potter and crew finding another ancient Hogwarts secret that could kill us all!"

Draco hums. "It probably _is,_ though."

"Honestly, I can't believe half the things this school allowed! Oh yes, let's plant a tree out back that smacks people for sport! Let's encourage a crazy half giant to bring all the nasty creatures he likes onto our property!"

"Let's hire Gilderoy Lockhart."

They snicker amongst themselves and it dawns on Draco just how lucky he is to have these two at his side. With Goyle gone to Beauxbatons and the loss of Crabbe he thought he'd have to trudge through the year miserable, lonely and grieving. They weren't that close before the war, but difficult circumstances draw people together.

They've been thick as thieves ever since. Now Draco's miserable, grieving and in company.

Definitely a positive development.

A negative one, too. He finds himself putting his friends before his own needs quite a lot these days. It worries him. Altruism is _not_ suited for a Malfoy, in fact, it's weakness. Yet he finds it harder and harder to squash down.

At the same time he's too much of a coward to distance himself. All he can do is make sure it doesn't get out of hand.

Ah, now the potatoes have a rather sharp taste. Paralyzing fear with a hint of insecurity.

More and more students and teachers trickle out of the Hall while Draco distracts himself in asking Pansy what she thinks of the new retro wizard hat trend. It sends her on quite a spiel. Before he realises, his plate is empty and so is the the Hall. Save for his year, save for Potter.

Of course that _dolt _would accidentally choose a seat directly facing him. Draco tries to keep his eyes away, but that _blasted _mess of hair is so bloody hideous and those _stupid_ glasses look so ridiculous, he can't help himself. Potter has his arms crossed on the table, an easy smile on his face. He's watching Weasley and Granger bicker as if it's not the fifth time today that they butt heads. The type of meaningless lovers quarrel that makes his stomach turn. Potter watches with such fondness, Draco thinks he'll actually puke.

Then, the green eyes shift to him. He panics. Usually he would keep eye contact, dare Potter to start a fight, to look away first. It would always just turn into a glaring match that lead to nothing, a petty squabble during dinner. Now, he doesn't quite know where they stand. He can't afford to accidentally start something. He finds he doesn't _want_ to either. So Draco averts his eyes and finally the Headmistress calls them over.

The eighth years envelop her in a humble crowd. One or two Ravenclaws, a few Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs and three Slytherins. Most of their classmates took the opportunities the war gave them and went off to do something with their lives. Draco's torn between respect and utter jealousy. Lucky bastards.

The three of them stand off to the side, but still earn some glares from the others. Yes, they get it, they're not welcome amongst the radiant heroes. He doesn't react to the hostility, keeping a blank face.

"I hope all of you had a good meal. As you might have guessed, this isn't about quidditch." A couple idiots groan. "_However,_ I have much more serious news."

Draco desperately wants to make a rude comment about Potter's antics, but holds his tongue. He searches the crowd instead, to gauge reactions. Most are disappointed, but not surprised and the Golden Trio seems completely unphased. Of course. It's always them, isn't it?

"Rest assured it's nothing life threatening, but still poses some danger. I have recieved multiple complaints from several students, that odd items have been appearing around the school. Furthermore, they all fall out of a mysterious vanishing door. I believe this is the Room of Requirement."

A short haired Ravenclaw, who Draco can't be bothered to recall the name of, raises his hand and Pansy snorts. The boy glares at her.

"No need for that, Mr. Burroughs."

"Thank you, Headmistress. Hasn't the Room of Requirement burned in the fiendfyre?"

Wonderful. Looks like the story has reached the Prophet. How, he isn't sure. It definitely wasn't Draco who tipped off some good for nothing reporter. He loathes to even remember that day, let alone retell it. It's unfortunate that his mind only sticks to that in his waking hours.

"Yes that was the consensus, however we can only be sure that the Room of Hidden Things burned. It is my theory that the fyre has spread and this new development is a sort of defence mechanism of the Room. Eject all of it's contents to those who need them before they get destroyed."

The Room is old and intricate magic. Draco could feel the raw power pushing down on him after spending hours on end repairing the Vanishing Cabinet in sixth year. It already seems sentient enough when it grants the desires of the people who enter, it's not entirely unreasonable that it has gained some kind of animalistic instinct to the point where it wants to perserve it's purpose and it's contents.

Mostly unknown, complicated magic going haywire in a castle full of children. Not life threatening at all.

"I would like to ask all of you to aid your teachers by turning in any object you find to myself or your Head of House. I trust you all to be cautious, since anything could be cursed. And I trust you to keep your fellow students safe. This is of course not an obligation, simply a request."

"Headmistress, are you sure the _snakes_ can be trusted with this?", some blithering moron asks.

Draco rolls his eyes and grabs Pansy to stop her from spewing any slurs or insults. She growls instead.

"I assure you, I would not have accepted a student back into Hogwarts whom I do not trust." McGonagall's voice is stern, leaving no room for argument.

Draco didn't expect her to outright defend them. The Headmistress owed them no support. Another debt to pay off? He's barely up to date with the ones gathered from the war. He'll be sure to donate some more money to Hogwarts repairs. Though the school year has started, some wings are still unaccessable. McGonagall finds him in the crowd and her eyes almost sparkle, much like the late Headmaster's did.

He returns a small nod.

"May I ask why we are keeping this a secret, Miss?", Granger asks.

"The last thing students need during such trying times is to be paranoid. Either way, if they don't know of it, it won't disrupt their lives, since all of your needs, as a group will be deemed far more important to the Room than the passing wish of a single fifth year. When it rids itself of all dangerous artefacts, then I will inform the rest of the student body."

"Is there a list of all the artefacts?"

Here we go. Already, people are looking around the Hall, searching for some form of escape from Granger's endless questions. Weasley is smiling like a maniac, lovingly staring at his girlfriend. What soppy nonsense. He averts his eyes, wishing to keep his dinner where it is supposed to be.

Draco's list of duties seem to be piling up by the second. Study, repair the Malfoy name, help Pansy with whatever she is planning and now watch out for stupid cursed items flying out of nowhere. He never seems to catch a bloody break.

Then he feels a pair of eyes on his back and turns, finding Potter watching him. They stare at eachother for a few agonising seconds, Draco growing more and more confused. Potter doesn't seem outright hostile, perhaps even curious. What on Earth is he supposed to do with that? Does he sneer? Does he look away? Does he keep staring?

Then Potter _smiles._

Ah, a new form of torture.

He's utterly dumbfounded, brain fumbling between fight or flight. He feels like the bloody ground was ripped out from under him. Potter? Smiling? At him? In what universe are they on smiling terms? All of Draco's common sense shuts down at record speed and his face settles to just mimic what he sees. So he smiles back, awkward and uncertain.

Potter grins wider, eyes lit up with a fire he doesn't quite know what to think of. Now, there's one thing Draco will never deny and that is the fact that he's a complete coward. He's developed cowardice into a sport and he's certain he always wins the gold medal. So he not only looks away, he moves to Blaise's other side, blocking himself from Potter's view.

Crisis averted, hopefully forever.

After Granger's curiousity is satisfied thrice over, finally they're let out of the Great Hall. The crowd disperses, off to their dorms and wherever else they need to be. He spots the Golden Trio, hunched over Granger's list of artefacts. Some banter and they're off, possibly to start the Headmistress' assignment early and roam the halls in need of things.

Draco watches Potter's retreating back until he's pinched by Pansy and told to stop loitering.


	2. Prank

"And then I had to _show _the wench the exact passage in the textbook, but she still wouldn't accept my answer!"

"Perhaps if you stopped calling Professor Babbling a wench, she would be more lenient," Blaise suggests. Entirely reasonable, yet Pansy ignores it.

"You know he's right, Pans. You should stop with the whole mudblood thing, as well. It doesn't go over well in this political climate."

"You're one to say!"

Draco pauses in arranging his potion ingredients and frowns. "I've restrained myself this year." Blaise nods in agreement.

She scoffs. "How noble! How pathetic! Well, I refuse to bow down to this tyranny! I'll say what I damn well want!" Draco swallows down a laugh.

"Ms. Parkinson! Mr. Malfoy! Please come here!"

All three whip their heads up to the sound of Professor Slughorn's voice. Blaise looks between the two of them in thinly veiled alarm, while Draco obediently follows command. Pansy is a bit harder to convince, but a decent shove gets her moving. He feels multiple eyes on them, even more so than usual with the cramped class of both seventh and eighth years.

Wouldn't you know it, Potter is waiting for them, standing in front of the professor. Draco squints at the boy, who only smiles in response. Again with the _smiling._ What is there to be so _bloody_ happy about?

Slughorn's voice is as obnoxiously cheery as usual. "Ah, there you are! Mr. Potter here has brought to my attention that he is struggling in potions. I'd like Ms. Parkinson, to switch seats with him. And Mr. Malfoy, be sure to-"

"What?! You can't do that!"

"_Pans,_" Draco warns.

The last thing they need is to make a scene with the Wizarding World's Darling. Hurt a hair on Potter's head and they'll throw you in Askaban faster than you can say "well, shit".

"Ms. Parkinson, may I remind you that disrupting the class will force me to send you to the Headmistress?"

"This is-!"

Draco pulls on her sleeve, hard. They stare eachother down for a few seconds, until finally Pansy gives in.

"Fine!", she snaps and stomps off to her seat.

Looks like he's the one that'll be switching with Weasley instead. He expects that she'll need to be pampered this afternoon to get her out of this foul mood.

Draco turns to Slughorn with a sigh.

"I apologise. She's... having a bad day today."

"That's quite alright, off to your seats now."

Apology accepted? He doesn't quite know what Slughorn thinks of them. At times he tries to be supportive of his House, at other times he's kissing up to Gryffindors like there's no tomorrow. Not like it matters. He doesn't much care for Slughorn's opinion.

Potter is still smiling, though currently with a tinge of sympathy. Draco rolls his eyes and trudges back to his seat to collect his belongings. Pansy ignores him.

Heading to his new table, he passes by Weasley and feels exactly how the redhead looks. Like he'd rather get the Dementor's Kiss than be in this room for the next hour. It feels like crossing a threshhold into the Lions den. With several of the bloodthirsty predators glaring at him along the way.

Potter, the absolute wanker, pats the seat next to him and gives a thumbs up. If he hasn't hated the man before, this certainly doesn't put him on his list of friends.

They don't so much as look at eachother until they're told to start brewing.

Potter squirms some before speaking. "Sorry about that."

He thinks of staying silent, but anything less than bowing down to Scarhead in the company of his fans means certain death. So he prepares himself for a _civil_ conversation, finding comfort in the rythmic mincing of ingredients.

"About what?"

Potter blinks, as if he expected to be ignored. "The whole, er, Parkinson thing."

He squints. "Why are _you_ apologising for that? Slughorn switched our seats."

Potter very deliberately looks away. "Right..."

He continues cutting. Then it dawns on him.

The _fucking-_

Draco's knife slips and almost nicks his finger. He hisses through his teeth and leans against his table for the only kind of moral support he gets these days.

"*_You_* asked to be seated next to _me?_"

"Um, yes?"

That makes absolutely no sense. He can't even _begin _to think of a reason for that. Is it a trap? It has to be. This and the fake politeness, the lack of aggression. Yes, it's all a trap. He's being lulled into a false sense of security.

"Why?"

Potter hums and starts reading his textbook, leaving Draco in agonising suspense. He clenches his knife and daydreams of the murder scene he could be making right now.

Potter shrugs. "I dunno. I need help and you're good at potions."

Now _that's_ rich. Draco adds to his cauldron and stirs. Potter is copying him, crude like a child, taking a fistful of asphodel to dump into his off colour potion. Draco rolls his eyes and pushes his hand away, pointing to the instructions. Only a pinch of ground asphodel root.

"For your information, I'm _excellent_ at Potions. And so is Granger. You could have asked her."

Potter looks up from his immense concentration of grinding up plants.

"You admit that Hermione, a "mudblood", is smart?"

"I'm egotistical, Potter, not stupid."  
  
He snorts, then stares at Draco for a few seconds longer. "Yeah, I guess you're not."

Tsk tsk. Avoiding the question, are we? Draco decides to leave it be. Clearly any further prying will lead to more terrible excuses. He's learned how to pick his battles.

Both of their potions turn out perfect, though only thanks to him batting away Potter's hand a few times when he makes a grab for the wrong ingredient.

"Looks good, yeah?"

Potter leans close to his cauldron like the personification of a safety hazard he is. Draco grimaces and slaps a hand on the man's forehead, pushing his face back to a safer distance. Potter sticks his tongue out as thanks, ungrateful bastard.

"Adequate."

The man grins, filling a vial to turn in and a short flood of panic washes over Draco. The moment the Golden Boy leaves, the others are free to jump him. He snatches up his belongings and doesn't bother to look back as he drops off his own vial. His exit might have looked a tad rushed, but that's the last of his worries right now.

He reflects on his conversation in Potions for the rest of the day. They have a few more classes together and Potter keeps trying to catch his eye, but he won't play that game. Trap or not, wherever the Boy who lived goes, trouble follows. He's had enough of that for a lifetime.

Though he does see the potential in getting on good terms with a war hero, it would just be twisted out of context. It's simply not worth it.

After classes and dinner the Slytherin trio retreats to a corner of the library, hidden by sprawling rows of bookshelves. He quite enjoys these study sessions. It's nice to be in companionable silence.

Except, it's not exactly silence with the constant clacking of Pansy's heels.

"Pans, _what_ are you doing?", Draco asks.

She's walking around and squinting into the gap between books.

"Quiet! I'll behead you two if I miss the fruits of my labour!"

Fruits of her labour? He shares a look with Blaise, but apparently he hasn't been graced him with an explanation either.   
Yet she's been surprisingly reasonable since the ordeal with Slughorn. It's suspicious, to say the least.

"Yes! Come, look!"

"Pans, I need to write this Transfigurations essay."

"Quickly!"

He groans, but obliges. They file into a line and see, well, students reading books.

"What are we supposed to be looking at right now?"

Then, _boom, scream._

A pink cloud explodes out of a book and the entire Gryffindor quidditch team is covered in a mix of snakes, slime and pink glitter. They make a big scene of it, yelling and shouting. Pansy covers her mouth, muffling her cackling.

"Bloody hell," Blaise whispers, staring at the chaos the bomb has caused.

Some of their peers in library are snickering while the team is getting a lecture from Madam Pince and Scourgifying the mess. The mess that _Pansy_ made.

Embarrassed and scolded like children in front of their classmates. They'll no doubt be looking for revenge.

Anger hits him like a freight train.

"Are you _insane?!_"

"Oh, Salazar! Did you see their faces?" She properly bursts out laughing.

Blaise swears and turns to him, eyes wide. Draco peeks back out and sees the team getting kicked out by Pince. If he were popular, full of himself and humiliated, he'd track down whoever did this or find some innocent kid to take it out on. In this case, innocent Slytherin. Incredible plan, Pansy. Truly a stroke of brilliance.

"Do you have any idea how _stupid_ that was?!"

Her face drops. Draco almost feels bad. Almost.

"Stupid?! Compared to what he bloody deserves I was a _saint!_"

"What are you talking about?! What if that little display gets tracked back to us? We'll be expelled!"

"You promised, Draco! You promised me you'd help!"

Help?

Oh, for the love of-

"How on _Earth_ will worthless, petty pranks help our House?! Excellent job, Pans, they went from bullies to _angry bullies._ If you're so adamant on wasting your time, do it somewhere else!"

"Quiet, both of you!" Blaise stands between them, ever the mediator.

He faces Pansy. "Reckless and emotional? Perhaps you'd be better off in Gryffindor." Blunt and harsh, Blaise's specialty.

She looks away and hugs herself, eyes glazed over. She looks like she's on the verge of tears. Draco grows concerned. Yesterday she had the brief emotional episode and today these outbursts.

Or is he overthinking it?

"And you. You're nothing better, shouting like that. You're lucky Pince was preoccupied."

Draco crosses his arms, eyes set on the ground.

Pansy sniffles.

Blaise sighs.

"_Apologise._"

Pansy's face morphs into disgust and Draco agrees. They're on the same page in this, at least. He admits his words might have been unkind in the heat of the moment, but what Pansy did could result in _serious _consequences. With a family history like theirs, they can't afford to mess around with even the smallest pranks. One wrong move and they're all thrown in Askaban. Or worse. Mother can't bear another loss. He can't do that to her.

"I'm sorry, Pansy. My words were uncalled for, even if they were the truth."

Blaise groans in his despair.

Pansy goes red in the face. "The _truth?_ The _truth_ is that you're worse than _Them!_"

Them.

The unspecific Them they use to refer to the people who've caused so much destruction in their lives. Them, the Death Eaters that would cast Imperiuses for the mere fun of it, because there _was_ no other fun in that hopeless, miserable, disgusting world of the Dark Lord. Them, the so called war heroes that lynch people for crimes they were _forced_ to commit. Them, their peers who don't see past the black and white borders of the world they've drawn for themselves.

His blood boils in an instant.

"Fuck you! Because I don't want to end up dead I'm suddenly worse than Them?! You're getting a few glares and insults, it's not _bloody_ Crucio!"

Pansy's eyes go wild and finally spill her tears. He's too angry to feel any guilt or remorse.

"Shit, Pince!", Blaise interrupts before another round of shouting could ensue.

Draco panics, they need to lay low until the quidditch team has gone far enough away. They can't afford to get kicked out and spotted by them.

They could make a run for it, but that'd just make more noise. Pince is mad enough to chase them, too.

Should they risk lying? No, Pansy's crying and their voices rang loud and clear.

There _must_ be a way out, he just has to-

_Slam!_

They jump and back away. A familiar door stands where a stone archway should be, wide open.

"The Room," Draco whispers.

All kinds of nasty memories come swirling back at the sight of that door. Hints of red and orange. Echoes of a scream.

Then, an object comes hurling at Draco's head. Just in time, his Seeker reflexes take control and he jumps out of the way. A good thing too, the object wedges itself into the spine of a thick book. The door promptly slams shut and vanishes. They huddle around the thing, shoulder to shoulder, and share spooked looks. It's a small, ornate glass flower with some faded letters painted onto it. He can't quite make it out. It must be old. And dangerous.

"What was all that noise?! Did one of you meddling children break something?!", Pince bellows, her heels clacking louder with every step. She's getting close.

"It's the Room of Requirement! It must be something we need!", Pansy says.

Before Draco can call out the enormous hole in her theory, Blaise cuts in.

"If you're so sure, then grab it."

Draco snaps. "Oh, yes, just go around fondling old and possibly cursed artefacts!"

"Maybe I will!"

And she bloody does. They're sent twisting and turning, then tumbling onto the floor in a mess of limbs. A wave of nausea slams into him and he covers his mouth, preferring the reality where he doesn't barf all over himself.

Pansy heaves herself upright by jabbing an elbow into Draco's side.

"Ow!"

"Suck it up!"

He stands as well, mourning the state his hair must be in right now, and glances at his surroundings. More bookshelves. Excellent.

"Unbelievable! We're still in the library! You wretched Room! I demand a refund!"

She winds back in the motion to chuck the glass flower and Draco scrambles to grab her arm.

"Don't _throw_ the thing! You'll break it!"

She tries to wrestle out of his grasp.

"And we'll be better for it! What's the point of a stupid cursed artefact if it doesn't _do _anything!"

"Potter," Blaise hums.

Draco and Pansy freeze, then turn around. There sits Potter on his lonesome, tucked into an alcove, watching them make fools of themselves.

The bastard smirks. "Looks like it _did _do something, eh?"

The cocky son of a-

"Oh, well that's just brilliant. It's like a Portkey, but it takes you straight to hell," Pansy groans.

"What's like a Portkey?"

"Oh, that's funny. I thought I heard a filthy mudblood sympathiser. Perhaps it's the wind."

Potter clenches his jaw, face turning from whimsical to deadly serious in an instant. Draco's taken aback from the stark contrast. It's that look of fierce confidence that made Death Eaters piss their trousers during the war. The Boy who lived brand of not quite murderous, but not quite merciful. The Prophet managed to nab a picture and has since plastered it on every flat surface possible.

Terrifying would be a good description for the effect it creates. The angry glares Draco recieved in their years of rivalry were nothing compared to this. When did little knobbly knee Potter get so formidable?

"_Pansy._ Shut _up._"

"Don't tell me what to do!"

The earlier frustration returns and he wants to yell at her some more. To ask what the bloody hell her problem is, but they have company. He looks to Blaise, who's of course no help, already donning his neutral mask. Merlin, the three of them are such a mess.

He sighs and extends his hand. "Please."

The flower is shoved into his palm and Pansy storms off. He pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut.

"I'll get her," Blaise mumbles.

He's left in silence. Potter watches them leave, eyebrows drawn together.

"Are they always like that?"

Draco bristles. Yes, that behaviour was far from perfect, but they're his only friends, dammit. Potter notices and lifts his hands in a placating gesture, like calming a wild animal. He takes offence to that, because he'll take offence to whatever Potter does, thank you very much.

"I meant like- Are all Slytherins so... messy? That's not the right word."

"Messed up?"

Potter blinks. "Er, your words, not mine."

He tries to understand what exactly Potter means. Does he think they weren't horribly scarred from all that has happened? Though he would never admit this to a living being, he feels _terrible._ All that he's ever known and stood for was ripped out from under him one swift motion.

He's tried desperately to internalize that he was a scared, foolish child following his father, but he just can't stop feeling like rubbish.

"We were children in a _war, _Potter."

The man's eyes widen into saucers. He curses the shakiness of his voice and walks up to the alcove, placing the flower on the stone.

"This should probably be turned in."

"Malfoy-"

He leaves to find Blaise and Pansy.


End file.
